


Give Me a Sign

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableist Bullshit, Alternate Universe - College/University, American Sign Language, Castiel Needs Dean Winchester, Character Development, Dead John Winchester, Deaf Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Discrimination, Found Family, Idiots in Love, Interpreter Castiel (Supernatural), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mature Student Dean Winchester, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sheltered Castiel, Slow Burn, Smart Dean, Stubborn Castiel (Supernatural), Stubborn Dean Winchester, Supportive Sam Winchester, Things aren't always easy for Dean but wow does he make them harder..., Virgin Castiel (Supernatural), brief mentions of past Dean/Other and past Cas/Other, minor injury, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: “People out there, Dean? They’ll chew you up and spit you out. You gotta learn to exist in the hearing world, or you’re never going to get anywhere. Learn to deal with it,”Dad had said, over and over.Dean knows it's bullshit.But that doesn’t mean it's easy to do any different, even with his Dad long gone.Fighting the world and with something to prove, Dean Winchester goes back to college, years after he initially dropped out. After a lot of persuasion from his found family, Dean agrees to have an interpreter assist him with his classes.Enter Castiel Novak, a gorgeous ASL interpreter who might be even more stubborn than Dean.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 597
Kudos: 461





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cryptomoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptomoon/gifts).



> This fic has been a long time coming, y’all. This was originally Crypto’s request for an auction fic. The 10k minimum for the auction was in the rear-view before I knew it, and then...2020 happened, not to mention a lot of other real-life issues for everyone involved.  
> But, we’re here. Finally. Crypto, I hope you like this fic, and enjoy seeing your prompt come to life. 
> 
> Some important notes about this fic: Yup, Dean is deaf. Here are some important things to keep in mind about that.
> 
> As explained in the story, Dean lip reads very well—but even so, only about 30% of the actual words that someone speaks are easy to pick up when lip reading. The rest is expression, body language, and simply guesswork. For ease of reading, I have written out conversations in this story as they occur, but you will notice that sometimes, particularly when meeting new people whom he isn’t familiar with their speech patterns, Dean will miss a few words here or there, or misunderstand something. This is deliberate, and something I thought was important to occasionally remind the reader of, even if for story purposes we will usually see the whole conversation.
> 
> Equally, in this story, when Castiel speaks to Dean after their initial introduction, he often uses “simultaneous communication”, more commonly known as sim-com. This means that he speaks out loud while also signing. An important point about this: please do not consider this to be the default way to communicate with d/Deaf people. If you think about it, this is the same as speaking two different languages at once. There’s no ‘direct’ translation for a whole sentence in the way that you might think, and it actually takes a fairly specific skill set to be able to do both accurately. 
> 
> Castiel uses sim-com specifically because he knows that Dean lip reads better than he can sign, but he is also trying to get Dean comfortable with ASL and have him pick up more signs through immersion. In this case, this is a teaching method, it is not how a person who communicates through ASL would usually appreciate being spoken to—on a basic level it could be distracting and confusing, and would be considered rude by some people within the d/Deaf community. Don’t assume that this is okay. Don’t assume that anyone reads lips, or anyone uses ASL. Many d/Deaf people do neither. The most important question you can ask any d/Deaf person when you meet them is a very simple: “How would you like me to communicate with you?” 
> 
> My final point: I am hearing. Therefore it is not my place to educate on an experience I do not have. Crypto, however, who requested this fic and provided the prompt for it, is Deaf. In addition, I’ve had several sensitivity readers helping with this story, but no one person’s experience is the same as anyone else’s. If you would like to learn more about the d/Deaf community or have questions, there are a lot of great resources online you can look at. The National Association of the Deaf is a great start, and there are many other resources that Google can point you to. 
> 
> Hopefully it doesn’t need saying, but just in case: It is also not d/Deaf people’s job to teach you. If you have d/Deaf friends you may well learn plenty, but it’s no more their job to instruct you in their culture than it would be for anyone else with a different culture than your own. Ask if they are willing to answer questions, if you’re close that way, but remember that the onus is on you to learn.
> 
> **A tip for reading this fic:**
> 
> **You will see this crop up in dialogue: ~~. This is an indicator of a missed word or words, something that Dean did not hear. I chose this symbol simply to avoid any confusion with em dashes or other commonly used punctuation.**
> 
> Hopefully, that should be enough info to get us going! If anything else crops up, I’ll address it in the notes of each chapter.
> 
> Alpha/Beta/Sensitivity Reader thanks: jscribbles, andimeantittosting, followyourenergy, captainhaterate, ms_josephine, Dino, EllenOfOz. So, so many thanks to you all!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Mal <3

  
  
  


Dean inhaled deeply. The whole break room smelled like gooey cheese and cooked meats of questionable origin. Which, to be fair, was still better than the “motor oil, Hot Pockets, and sweaty socks” combo that usually filled the air. Dean’s leftover Winchester Surprise wasn’t health food and it wasn’t pretty, and okay, maybe Jo was right and it technically looked (and smelled) a bit like someone had already eaten it. But to Dean, the greasy mess meant comfort and home. It was one of the only recipes he had from his mom. It was also easy to cook a big batch of over the weekend, so that he could bring leftovers for lunch all week. Jo loathed Winchester Surprise weeks. 

Looking over at the microwave, Dean saw that the green numbers had stopped counting down, greeting him with a glowing “END,” instead. 

Settling back down into the well-worn seat of his preferred breakroom couch once he’d retrieved his lunch, he peeled the top off the Tupperware and kicked his feet up on Bobby’s old coffee table. It wobbled. The uneven, shabby thing had migrated to the shop when Ellen had insisted that Bobby get one that hadn’t been chewed by Rumsfeld, their ancient rottweiler. It still had teeth marks… Once upon a time, Dean had thought to sand them out, pretty it up, but in reality, no one working at Singer’s cared much.

Two spoonfuls into Dean’s piping-hot, nostalgic lunch, a hand gently pressed to his bicep, drawing his head up. “Hey, Jo,” he said, dropping his feet so that she could walk around to the other side of the table.

Jo had a slightly flat sandwich in one hand and a diet Pepsi in the other. Her blonde hair was tied back roughly, and she had splatters of black grease all over her, across her army green  _ Singer’s Auto  _ shirt and even covering her cheeks and forehead. She sat down directly opposite Dean so that they could talk with ease, though she didn’t greet him beyond a sullen nod.

Dean returned his feet to resting on the table and waggled his boot to get her attention. When she looked back up, he put down his spoon so that he could sweep his hand up to gesture at his face before pointing at her. “Why are you wearing an oil change?”

Jo scowled, taking a bite of her sandwich and dropping it onto her lap before she replied. Out of habit, Jo moved her hands as she spoke, gesturing and throwing in Pidgin Signed English automatically, so that Dean wouldn’t have to rely purely on lip reading. “Cole. He’s such a dick. He left the drip pan from his oil change on top of the Camaro he just finished with. It was hanging over the edge, so I walked into it. Of course, his excuse was that he told everyone it was there; it’s not his fault I couldn’t hear him.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I’m glad I can’t actually hear his asshole of a mouth.”

Her shoulders loosening, Jo grinned and nodded in agreement. She’d just needed to say it, Dean figured, to talk about it and have someone agree with her in order to feel better. Not a compulsion that Dean himself was all that familiar with. Ignore it ‘til it went away—that was the Winchester way.

Settling back onto the old couch, Jo pointed to the pile of papers on the table next to Dean. “Are those all your intake papers for school?”

Dean nodded reluctantly before going back to his lunch. It took the steel toe of Jo’s boot jabbing painfully at his knee to get him to look back up again.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

Dean gave her a disbelieving look. “You’ve known me since we were babies. When have I ever wanted to ‘talk about it?’”

“Oh, so Trenton isn’t the only one who got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” Jo threw back.

In lieu of an actual response, Dean decided to glare and shove his mouth full of Winchester Surprise. Jo, though, hadn’t known Dean his entire life for nothing, and she appeared to be perfectly content to wait him out. She sat, arms crossed, sandwich done, and smiled at him patiently.

Swallowing harshly, Dean popped the lid back onto his Tupperware and tossed it down onto the table. It bounced and scuttered away from him before landing on the paper pile under discussion. “Alright,” he said, focusing on Jo. “Ask me your damn questions.”

Jo raised an eyebrow, chastising. “Fine,” she said, leaning further forward. “I’ll play. When do classes start?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Bobby giving you the time off that you need?”

Dean nodded, but said nothing, still waiting for the real question.

“Have you been to the Student Access Center to see what help you can get, what accommodations can be made?”

If it had been anyone but Jo, Dean probably would have stormed out right then. Instead, he gritted his teeth and exhaled heavily through his nose, before leaning forward to run his hands through his hair. He took a moment to regard his kneecaps before directing his answer back to Jo. “I don’t need help.”

“Was I asking for your Dad’s answer? Or yours?” Jo said, her expression catty and unimpressed.

“Ouch,” said Dean.

“Want me to ask again?” Jo said, her gaze unwavering.

“It’ll be different from last time,” Dean said. He was determined it would be. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered it, hadn’t thought about it. He knew that the main reason he’d dropped out of college the first time had been because of his deafness and his poor handling of it.

Dean was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He was self-aware enough to know that the way his dad had raised him, to fight his way through life like it was out to get him, wasn’t healthy.

_ People out there, Dean? They’ll chew you up and spit you out. You gotta learn to exist in the hearing world, boy, or you’re never going to get anywhere. Learn to deal with it, _ John had said, so many times.

Dean  _ knew _ it was bullshit.

But that didn’t mean it was easy to do any different, even with his dad long gone.

Realizing that he’d drifted off into his thoughts, snapped his eyes back upward. Oops.

“~~like last time,” Jo said, nodding.

“Sorry,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I got distracted. Say that again?” He pushed his thoughts aside, concentrating instead on his best friend’s lips as they moved, and taking in the bits of ASL and Pidgin signs that she threw in naturally to help him along.

“I just don’t want to see you struggle. You are smart and you deserve that degree. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. It’s not a weakness to want to be on a level playing field with everyone else. It doesn’t have to be like last time,” she repeated.

Jo was the only person Dean could understand with such ease. Years of friendship, growing up together, and Jo’s willingness to communicate however they needed—despite John Winchester’s ban on sign language in Dean’s childhood home—made for an easy rapport. Coming from a Deaf family, she understood him a lot better than most. Their sibling-like bond also, she claimed, gave her leeway to say things to Dean that only his brother Sam, or maybe Bobby and Ellen, could otherwise get away with saying.

Dean disagreed. She didn’t give a shit.

Every word Jo was saying was true. Dean knew that. But he clenched his fists even so, resisting. He didn’t want to stand out, to be the weird older student in the corner of the class who needed someone to hold his hand. He didn’t want to be  _ weak. _

Jo, Sam, and Ellen, and probably even Bobby, would have blown a few gaskets in outrage if he said that out loud.

But he thought it, anyway.

_ Thanks, Dad. _

“You need to stop thinking of it as help,” Jo continued, pulling a card from her jeans’ pocket and dropping it on the table. “I even got the number of the Access Center for you. You deserve the same chance everyone else has. It’s a right, not a privilege.”

“Alright,” Dean grumbled. “Enough crusading for one lunch break, okay?”

Jo’s shoulders rose and fell slightly with a sigh. “Okay, Dean. Are you working late today?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta replace the brakes on the Chrysler out back, and then Bobby is gonna listen to the engine on that Subaru for me and see if he can help me diagnose what the hell is wrong without having to take the whole thing apart.”

“Well, don’t be too late,” Jo reminded him. “My mom is cooking dinner for us all, remember, so she gets to see Sam one last time before he flies out.”

Oh, Dean definitely remembered. Like there was any chance he wasn’t counting the minutes until Sam left and dreading every single one. He was proud of Sam, but Dean had played a bigger part in raising Sam than his dad had, when it came down to it. He missed the kid something fierce during the school year while he was studying law at Stanford, though Dean would rarely admit just how much.

He nodded and waved to Jo before she headed out the door that led into the repair bay of Singer’s Auto, the auto shop and salvage yard run by his Uncle Bobby. Bobby might not technically be a blood uncle, but Dean’s family neither started nor ended with that.

Dean rinsed out his Tupperware and shoved it in the scrappy backpack he used for work, hanging it back on the peg next to the door. The peg was labelled with his name and had been for years now. It sat between Garth’s and Cole’s, even though Dean was going down to part-time during the semester. He wasn’t going to be replaced here, in the only real home he had. Dean was immensely grateful that, even though he was going back to school, Bobby supported him and was still going to give him hours at the shop. He loved his job and his colleagues. Well, most of his colleagues. Okay...one of his colleagues was a total dickbag.

Dean hurriedly shoved his paperwork in beside the Tupperware and was about to leave when he noticed the card Jo had proffered still on the wooden tabletop. He leaned over and picked it up, slowly turning it in his hands.  _ Kansas State University Academic Achievement Access Center,  _ it said in neatly printed letters.  _ Missouri Moseley, Student Liaison, _ it went on, before providing her email and phone number. Her office hours were displayed on the back.

Dean spun the card in his fingers, looking once, then twice, to the trash can.

Finally, with a sigh, he tucked it into his back pocket and went back to work.

The engine of the Subaru, Bobby informed Dean, sounded like someone was shaking a bag of rocks. Dean sighed at his assessment but nodded. He doubted that the owner would be down for a total engine rebuild on such an old vehicle, but he’d ask. Cleaning the grease from his hands with a rag, Dean headed back out onto the main shop floor, having taken a few minutes to wipe everything down after Bobby had delivered his verdict. He tossed the square of white shop fabric, now gray and black with engine grease, into the bucket in the corner and pushed his way through the swing door that led into the office.

Dean flopped down onto the wobbly swivel chair that lived under the desk, slowly spinning around twice before he pulled the plastic filing tray over toward himself. He searched for the Subaru owner’s phone number so he could text them the news about the car; Garth’s penchant for organizing everything in sight really paid off when it came to admin. The owners had already responded that they’d “think about it and call back” by the time the light in the office flashed twice, announcing someone’s arrival at the garage. Looking up at the light panel that Bobby had rigged up above the door many years before, Dean saw there was someone ringing the bell at the front. He craned his neck, looking out through the glass panel of the swing door. Seeing no one else in sight to answer it, Dean hauled himself back out of the seat.

Something was tense and off the minute Dean stepped back onto the shop floor.

Cole had a face like an angry bull’s ass on the best of days, but right then he was waving his hands, his mouth moving fast. Yelling, Dean assumed. At Bobby. Which Dean would just never be cool with.

“Hey,” he called, moving over to the two men with a frown already in place. “What’s going on?

Turning on Dean, Cole gave him a scathing look. “Maybe if Bobby didn’t have to waste time doing  _ your _ job, he’d have~~” Dean squinted at Cole's mouth, confused, trying to keep up. "~~around to help with this~~" Nothing. Spittle flew from Cole's lips. "~~I’ve been needing all day!”

Dean’s mind worked overtime trying to fill in the gaps and work out what Cole was so mad about. He was good at lip reading, but even so, at least half of what he picked up was from context clues rather than the specific movement of someone’s mouth—and that was a generous estimate, based on someone who actually took the time to  _ try _ and speak clearly and to look at Dean when they talked.

Cole was a lazy, bitter son of a bitch. He didn’t even try. 

“~~don’t see why I should~~because Bobby wants to play favorites with the~~” 

Dean blinked. Unfortunately for everyone, Dean was nowhere near a big enough person to not rise to that kind of bait. “What the hell?” he threw back, scowling and stepping right up to Cole. “What is your problem? You don’t run this place, Bobby does. It’s up to him what—”

Bobby touched Dean’s shoulder to pull his attention. “Dean,” he said, his untamed, graying eyebrows drawn together firmly. “You’re right, I run this place. So, it’s not up to you to fight my battles, boy. Go answer the door.”

Still bristling and annoyed, even if Bobby was right, Dean slowly disengaged and stepped back. Nodding, he moved across the floor to go and see who was waiting to be attended to. He turned before he stepped out, and saw Bobby verbally railing into Cole, his hand clenched at his side and his brow furrowed.

The client that was waiting out front had an appointment to drop off their Honda, so it only took Dean a few minutes to get their paperwork done and send them on their way. They spoke pretty clearly, and it only required one tap at the “Please be PATIENT I am DEAF!” badge on his chest to get through it. Dangling their keys idly from his forefinger, Dean made his way back into the shop, pushing at the heavy swing door with his shoulder.

Jo and Garth were switching out some tires on a depressingly beige soccer-mom van, but no one else was in sight. Dean headed back toward the office to get the keys logged in and see what the next job on his docket was. Bobby sat at the desk when Dean entered, leaning back in the chair with a sour expression on his face and a clipboard balanced on his knee.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted him, closing the door and walking up to the edge of the desk. The office was tiny, the smallest room on the premises, but like every other space Bobby made sure that it was brightly lit, for Dean—it was so much easier to pick words out from beneath the twitch of Bobby’s mustache with decent light. 

Wordlessly, Bobby kicked the other chair out from the wall and nodded down at it. Dean could communicate with Bobby almost as easily as Jo, but it certainly helped that the grumpy old bastard used as few words as possible in the first place.

Raising his eyebrow in question, Dean leaned over to place the keys from the checked-in car on the desk, before he forgot. “That’s the Davidson’s Honda,” he said, once he could see Bobby again.

“Checked in alright?” Bobby asked. “No problems?”

Dean shrugged. “Normal, no issues.”

Bobby nodded, but his brow was still creased in thought.

Folding his arms across his chest, Dean stared across at him until Bobby met his eyes again. “What’s up, old man? You got something to say?” After another moment of thought, Dean added, “This about Cole?”

Frowning, Bobby’s lips parted, as if he was letting out a long sigh. “Yeah, I suppose. Nothing for you to worry about; he’s just bitchin’ like always.”

“About me?” Dean asked bluntly, his stomach clenching angrily.

Bobby gave him a pointed, annoyed look.

“So that’s a yes,” Dean said with a huff. “What did I do this time?”

Shaking his head, Bobby leaned forward on his knees and hunched over toward Dean, his puffy vest bunching up around his shoulders. “Look, boy, you didn’t do nothin’. It’s me that Cole is pissed with. You know he doesn’t think I should have you working out there with the rest of the guys—”

Immediately angry and defensive, Dean pushed up against the arms of his chair, ready to go see Cole himself. “I can work just as well as—”

“I know that, kid. Sit your ass down!” Bobby said, his furrowed brow more than enough to clue Dean in on his tone.

Chastised, Dean settled back into his seat, jaw still tight. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Look, Dean, Cole is my problem. This is my business, and it’s not right that he says the stuff he does. Your work isn’t in question here, and your job ain’t, either. You do better than him, honestly, and we adapted the garage for you years ago. Nothing’s gonna change around here.”

Slowly, Dean nodded. Cole made his blood boil, but he knew that he was also the only guy Bobby had who could work on the electronics for some of the newer cars, so he felt like he was in a bind. Dean appreciated that Bobby always had his back, regardless.

“Thing is, boy,” Bobby said, searching Dean’s face to make sure he was paying attention, “you’re gonna come up against assholes like Cole all your life.”

Dean frowned. “I know that, Bobby. My dad always said—”

“John ain’t fit for you to be takin’ any advice from, Dean.”

Dean sat wordlessly, eyes wide. Bobby never spoke about John; they’d been friends for decades, and Ellen had been his mom’s best friend, but his mother, Mary, had died over twenty years back. Since then, Dean knew that Bobby and John hadn’t always seen eye to-eye on a lot of things.

“John wanted you to go out there in the world and fight for every damn thing you want, Dean,” Bobby continued, straightening up. “And that ain’t bad, but it ain’t fair, either. He made you stubborn and he made you never accept help from anyone. It’s not a privilege for you to be on the same level as everyone else without havin’ to claw your way there. It’s just a right.”

Dean squinted across the space between them, suspicious. “You making a point, old man? Or is this a precursor to free hugs or some shit? You’re talking like Sammy.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “You ever think maybe your brother is right?”

Thinning his lips, Dean didn’t respond.

Pushing his hands back through his short, balding hair, Bobby shook his head at the floor before looking back up at Dean, moistening his lips and trying again. “Dean, you know I’m not one for the touchy-feely stuff. But I think if your mom was alive, she’d want to see you succeeding. She’d want to see you  _ trying. _ And right now…you’re coasting. You’re smart, and you deserve to earn that damn piece of paper from the college.”

Dean couldn’t quite work out how to respond, his breath caught in his throat.

“Honestly,” Bobby continued, “I think you’re just scared.”

Shaking his head slightly, Dean let out a small sigh. “Jo talked to you, didn’t she?”

“She did, though she didn’t need to. Your stubborn ass has been the same since you were a toddler.” Bobby leaned back in his seat again, linking his fingers together across his chest so that they rested over the zipper of his vest. “I’m keeping you on part time while you go back to school because I believe in you, boy. We all do.”

“Alright, Bobby,” Dean forced out. “No need to get sappy on me.”

“Maybe there is a need,” Bobby said immediately, “if it’s the only thing that’ll make you realize there ain’t nothing wrong with bein’ the way you are and using the resources they’ve got for you. You don’t have to fight the world. Sometimes it’s okay to meet it in the middle.”

Reaching into his back pocket, Dean pulled out the card for the KSU Access Center. It had formed into a curve from warming up in his back pocket, and Dean slowly smoothed it out, far more than necessary, happy to have an excuse not to look back up at Bobby for a minute.

When he did, Bobby was wearing a tiny, proud smile. He pushed up off his chair, and it spun emptily for a moment as Bobby approached the office door, heading back out onto the floor. As he passed Dean, Bobby reached out, squeezing his shoulder.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” Dean saw Bobby say.

Dean nodded minutely. Bobby didn’t say anything in return; the softness at the corner of Bobby’s eyes was communication enough for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick intro chapter for you all!
> 
> Next Tuesday we're off to college to meet Castiel.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this first chapter, and embarking on a new story with me. As always, if you want updates when I post, pleased do subscribe. You're also welcome to follow me on Twitter, tumblr or check out my linktree for other social media.
> 
> Until next week, take care!
> 
> \- Mal <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!
> 
> Thank you so much for the overwhelmingly positive reaction to the first chapter. That really means a lot, I was super nervous to share this one so I let out a huge sigh of relief. At least for now, lol!
> 
> It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks for me. (Dull work deadlines, a brief covid scare, a freelance editing job to do, a sick horse, and medical appointments...I have a glass of wine right now and it feels deserved, lol!) Because of that I've only just cleared my AO3 inbox, but I will endeavor to be quicker this week!
> 
> Thanks so much for taking the time to read my notes about the fic and gain a little extra understanding. If you have any questions throughout I will do my best to answer them in your comments, or I may put it here if it needs to be generally said--unless it's a spoiler, of course!
> 
> With that, we'd better get on to chapter two, and expand our cast a little bit. Dean has a bit of a rough time this chapter, but as you'll come to see, some of his problems are definitely ones our stubborn boy makes for himself!
> 
> I hope you enjoy :))
> 
> \- Mal <3

Singer’s Auto Repair was in Topeka, so Dean was already half an hour closer to the K State campus than he would have been if he’d driven all the way from Lawrence. Or that’s the excuse he’d used, anyway, when he’d asked Bobby to put him on shift for the morning. In reality, of course, he just wanted the normalcy of metal and oil to settle his jitters before he headed to the Student Access Center for his appointment. 

Baby’s hood slammed down, making her frame shudder, as Bobby shut it sharply to get Dean’s attention. Dean scowled as he rolled down the window; being rough with his pristine ‘67 Impala was no way to get him to look in the right direction.

Bobby smirked at him. “You’d better hurry up, son, or you’ll be late.”

And just like that, poof, there went the normalcy.

“Yeah,” Dean said reluctantly. “I was just about to close her up and head off.”

“Gave her an oil change to calm your nerves?” Bobby asked, crossing his arms in front of his eternal puffy vest. 

“No, she just needed one,” Dean lied.

Bobby shook his head in disbelief. “Get outta here,” he said, giving Baby an affectionate pat on the hood. “And don’t be an asshole to those people, y’hear?”

Dean glowered, rolled up his window, and drove out of the bay. 

The journey from Topeka to Manhattan, where the Kansas State main campus was, took about fifty minutes. For someone who loved driving as much as Dean did, it was nothing—even driving from his apartment in Lawrence would take less than an hour and a half. When Dean had told Sammy that on Zoom the night before, he’d looked horrified. Living in a residence hall right on campus at Stanford was making Sam lazy, Dean decided. Kid didn’t even have a car—it wasn’t natural.

The low vibrations of Robert Plant’s deep voice through the Impala’s speakers kept Dean company until he reached the campus. Occasionally he’d wonder and long to know what the music  _ sounded _ like, but he still loved the feel of it, the bass buzzing into his skin. He remembered the tunes of some of his mom’s favorite songs from when he was a tiny kid, but he wasn’t sure how accurate he was with them anymore. He’d last heard Led Zeppelin when he was five, before his hearing completely went. But they were still his favorite, and always would be.

He pushed the volume up, increasing the vibration to distract himself from his own thoughts. 

As he’d expected, the K State campus was busy. Dean didn’t have a parking permit yet, and after a few minutes going back and forth, he decided to park in a public garage just a short walk away. He didn’t take chances with Baby’s safety. Squeezing her in somewhere or leaving her on the street? Not happening.

Holton Hall was an imposing limestone building that made Dean feel underdressed in its presence. Luckily, there were plenty of other folks milling around, most of which looked to be dressed even further down than Dean. He passed a couple of dudes in onesies as he headed into the building, and decided to stop worrying.

It was fine. He could do this.

“I’ve got an appointment with Ms. Moseley,” Dean said carefully at the desk, enunciating to the best of his ability. 

Dean saw movement in the clerk’s cheeks, but she remained looking down at her keyboard as she answered him, until he tapped his fingers on the desk and got her to repeat herself. It was so annoying when people did that—bane of Dean’s goddamned existence. 

Directed to the correct waiting area, Dean was carefully taking in the modern,  _ perky-feeling _ office space when a neat, red pant-suit stepped into his view. Looking up immediately, Dean found himself face to face with a beaming black woman who somehow, though they’d never met, seemed to be genuinely happy to see him.

“Dean Winchester?” she asked. 

At his nod, she gestured to an office, and he followed. 

“Welcome to K State,” she said, settling herself behind a slim desk. “I’m so glad that you ~~ to stop by and see me before classes started.”

Her demeanor was so warm and smiling that Dean actually believed her words, even if he missed one or two of them. He nodded, giving her a brief smile in return, but not quite sure what to say. 

“Now, after you emailed,” she began, reaching for a piece of paper and sliding it toward Dean, “the first thing I ~~ was pull your class schedule.”

Dean looked down at the neatly printed timetable of his classes for the upcoming semester—a smattering of courses covering math, chemistry, and computer science, and some all-important mechanical engineering core classes. He lifted his head back up and noticed that Ms. Moseley had waited for him to look back at her before speaking.

He shouldn’t have been surprised—this was her job, after all—but it made Dean relax a little.

“You have a heavy course load and several quite technical classes in there,” she said, gesturing to the paper. “So, I do have a few questions, if you ~~ mind answering them honestly.”

Dean nodded.

“How well can you lipread?”

“I get by,” he said guardedly.

Ms. Moseley stared at him, waiting.

After letting out a small sigh, Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. “I can lipread pretty well in a one-on-one scenario with someone who’s being careful to speak properly, like you,” he explained. “When I tried college the first time, it...it was a struggle.”

Ms. Moseley nodded. “Professors have a lot of students to worry about; they can’t be constantly looking in one direction or focusing on ~~ person. Most of our deaf and hard of hearing students prefer to work one-on-one with ASL interpreters. We have ~~on staff who are dedicated solely to helping students in classroom scenarios.”

“Ahh,” Dean said, shifting anxiously in his seat. “Well, I, uh, I can sign a tiny bit. But I’m not very good. I wasn’t raised using it or anything.”

Ms. Moseley’s smile was kind, and she was already nodding. “You did mention that in your email, which is why I wanted to introduce to you one of our interpreters in ~~ he works with students like you, but he’s also an ASL instructor for several courses here. The aim is that he would ~~ classes with you, sign as a backup for you while you lipread, and be your classroom advocate.”

“Classroom advocate?” Dean double checked, trying to push down his frustration at the conversation. “What’s that?” 

Ms. Moseley wasn’t too difficult to understand, obviously used to making sure that she spoke clearly and slowly without managing to slip into the gross, fucking  _ annoying _ habit that some people had of speaking to Dean like he was  _ stupid _ , rather than just deaf. Even so, he had to guess the odd word here and there, and he didn’t want to mess this up. 

He  _ couldn’t _ mess this up. Jo might kill him.

“Professors are overworked as it is, and they may not be aware of your needs amongst a lecture hall of two or three hundred students. Your advocate will be the ~~ who is in your corner, Dean. If you need transcripts of lectures, copies ~~ slides, or written instructions for papers rather than verbal, he will be the one making sure you get all of those. Any bumps in the road, he will be your guy.” 

Dean thought that sounded uncomfortably like the special treatment and “sticking out like a sore thumb” he’d been so determined to avoid, but with Bobby and Jo’s eager faces still in the back of his mind, he swallowed his pride and nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Ms. Moseley stood from behind her desk and stuck her head out of the office door. Dean could only assume that she shouted for someone, because when she returned to her seat she smiled brightly before indicating the door.

Seconds later, Dean’s mouth went dry. 

The guy that appeared in the doorway was wearing a wrinkled navy suit and sensible shoes, but Dean barely registered his dull, quiet wardrobe over the loudness of his strikingly blue eyes. Blue was a common color, so there was no reason why this man should look exotic and remarkable, but he did. He was tan and muscular and incredibly handsome, but it was those eyes that had Dean in a mental spiral. They punched Dean in the throat and he panicked for a moment—thinking that perhaps he’d actually let out one of the strangled noises that his brain was making—but the man smiled calmly at him, extending a hand as if Dean’s reaction was entirely normal.

Though, Dean supposed, if you went through life looking like that, Dean’s reaction probably was entirely normal.

Managing to shake the guy’s hand without making a fool out of himself, Dean cleared his throat. “Hey. I’m Dean.”

Castiel’s hands moved as he spoke, almost as if it was automatic. Communication flowed out of him in tandem, and Dean wasn’t sure he could recall someone ever looking so comfortable as they smiled and said their name, clarifying the spelling with fluid, exceptionally clear finger signs. “Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel. I’m going to be your interpreter while you’re here with us at K State.”

“Castiel,” Dean tested out, immediately anxious that his pronunciation was going to be off. 

“You can call me Cas,” Castiel said. The guy’s small smile warmed his serious face, but instead of feeling reassuring, the offered nickname just made Dean feel even more certain he hadn’t said it right. 

Feeling the warmth of a flush at the back of his neck, Dean dropped back into his seat, turning his eyes determinedly back to Ms. Moseley. 

“So, I get a hand-holding buddy for all of my classes?” Dean deflected, before reaching to pick up the class schedule again from the tabletop. 

“You get whatever help you may need, Dean,” Ms. Moseley replied knowingly, a teasing twinkle in her eye. “Hand holding ~~ optional, and I’d suggest getting to know Cas first.”

Dean felt his neck heating further. Okay, that  _ wasn’t _ what he’d meant. He chanced a look over at Castiel again—his expression didn’t seem to have changed at all. But, when Dean looked closely at him, he smiled his slight smile and reached across to tap at Dean’s schedule.

“The only class I have a conflict with is your computer science class; it’s at the same time as one of the classes I teach. I made the suggestion to Ms. Moseley that switching you to a ~~” —Castiel paused at Dean’s squint and repeated the word easily, spelling it out— “a  _ remote-learning _ version of that lab might benefit you. Then you can take it at your own pace and focus on the digital materials.”

Dean was surprised—but immensely pleased—to see that Castiel spoke clearly and calmly enough that Dean barely missed a word. He looked back at Ms. Moseley, asking, “I’d still get the same credits that I need, just like if I did the in-person class?”

She nodded. “You would. It will also free up your Friday afternoons, so you’ll be able to socialize more. I’m sure that’s good news.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Not really here for that. I gotta work, too.”

Ms. Moseley raised a neatly penciled brow but said nothing. Instead she deferred to Castiel, who raised his fingers and paused for Dean’s attention before he spoke again.

“My assistance is supposed to be for classroom settings, but I’ve found that some students find it helpful to let me know of any clubs or societies that they want to join. I can sometimes find ways to help people with alternate communication needs to integrate better.” 

Dean frowned. “I’ve gotten this far in life just fine on my own, I don’t think I need help making friends.”

Castiel’s lips thinned only fractionally, but his expression clearly stated that he thought Dean knew perfectly well that  _ wasn’t _ the intention of his speaking up. “Very well, then. The offer stands if you change your mind. Ms. Moseley”—Castiel directed his speech to the advisor with a flick of his eyes, but Dean noticed that he considerately remained angled toward Dean as he spoke—“unless you need anything else from me, I’ll take a copy of Dean’s schedule and get back to orientation.” 

“Very well, honey,” Ms. Mosely said, smiling familiarly. “As long as we’re all in agreement, you can just meet Dean in his ~~ class on Tuesday.”

Castiel nodded, Dean nodded, and just like that, it was set.

It was just Dean’s kinda luck that his very first class of the year, of this entire attempt at college, was a math class. 

Ugh.

He was ten minutes early—he wanted to make sure he had the correct room—but as it was the first day of school, he wasn’t the only one. Castiel arrived seconds after Dean, sweeping into the room in a crumpled beige trench coat. Dean couldn’t help but bite back a smile; this dude was incredibly hot (like, stop-drop-and-roll hot), but his fashion sense seemed to have been inherited from an accountant who slept under bridges. 

Dean raised his hand in greeting as Castiel approached. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. His ugly boots thumped on the floor as he came to a stop next to Dean’s chair, solid steps that Dean could feel when he got closer. He carried a bulging briefcase, though he didn’t put it down immediately. “You think this will be the best seat for you?”

Awkwardly, Dean gestured to the seating chart that had been displayed next to the gigantic whiteboard that took up most of the wall. He’d thought it was strange that there was a chart—no one had cared where he sat since high school. But, as one of the other students had helpfully said to a friend while Dean was close enough to see, “Better just do what it says. My sister told me ~~ a huge control freak.”

Dean didn’t want to make a big deal of it, so he’d moved off to his seat. The students had been arranged simply in alphabetical order by last name, putting Dean close to the back.

“It’s where they put me,” he explained to Castiel.

“Well, this is a college not a middle school, so your professor will have to learn to be more flexible,” Castiel said. He smiled calmly, a brisk, unflappable air about him as his eyes flicked between Dean and the offending chart.

“Look, dude, I don’t want to make a fuss on my first day, okay?”

The way Castiel looked straight at Dean when he spoke, in a way that many people seemed awkward or shy about doing, was a little unnerving. Dean needed people to look at him, but it was still unusual for someone to do it quite that  _ intensely. _

Looking down at Dean’s chair again, then forward to the podium and whiteboard, Castiel shook his head and frowned. “No, Dean. You don’t want to make a fuss, I understand that, but this won’t do. You can’t lip read from back here. Give me a moment.” 

With that, his trench coat spun out around him and he moved off to the front of the class. Dean watched as Castiel moved up to a tanned, balding man in a suit, and began speaking. The man scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.  _ Oh, great, _ Dean thought.  _ That’s a good start. _

The professor gestured to the seating chart, but Castiel was shaking his head even before he turned back. Dean was too far away to make out what the guy—Adler, the board said his name was, Professor Z. Adler—or Castiel was saying, but when Castiel smiled back at him, Dean was struck by how  _ dangerous _ Castiel’s expression looked. That was a fighting smile, Dean realized. Castiel leaned forward, quietly directing a few furious-looking, incomprehensible words into Adler’s personal space.

After only a second’s hesitation, Adler stepped back and walked up to the front row, approaching a red-headed girl about halfway along. He spoke to her briefly and pointed up to Dean’s seat. She turned, and Dean noticed that she was wearing a black shirt with a bright yellow Star Wars logo emblazoned across the front. Nodding cheerily, she grabbed a backpack—covered in more badges and pins than Dean had ever seen—from the seat beside the desk and bounded up the incline to where Dean sat. 

From the professor’s swift gesture, Dean guessed that he was supposed to take the newly vacated seat.

The girl grinned as she squeezed past Dean on the way to his old seat, and he gave her a grateful smile for not making a fuss. Not that many people would really  _ want _ to sit that close to the front anyway, he figured. 

Dean settled into his new spot, and a chair was quickly procured for Castiel to sit beside him. 

“Thank you,” Dean quickly signed to Castiel as Professor Adler moved to close the door and begin. He didn’t like causing a problem, standing out—but Castiel hadn’t made a big deal of it, hadn’t made Dean feel like he was somehow more work than anyone else. It felt like a simple problem with a simple solution.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as he’d feared. 

The lesson itself wasn’t so bad—being the first class of the year, there was very little actual teaching done. Adler mostly talked about grading, expectations, and plans for the year. Even so, Castiel sat beside Dean, summarizing the professor's words in sign. Dean tried to keep up with Castiel at first, but then realized his ASL was definitely not up to that. But, as Castiel had said in Ms. Moseley’s office, he could use it as a backup. Mostly, Dean could watch Adler—at the times when he spoke too fast, or Dean lost line of sight, he simply shifted his attention fully to Castiel, who caught him up. He couldn’t understand all of Castiel’s signs, but he could get the general gist, and it helped. 

By the time Adler dismissed them, Dean was feeling fairly...dare he say it...positive. 

Dean started to leave, but Castiel reached out to gently touch his arm, pulling his attention back.

“Before you go, can we take a few minutes to review what worked and what didn’t?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded, sitting back down. “Sure.”

“So, how was that? Was it helpful to have me sign all the time, or merely a distraction?”

Dean thought before he answered. “It was a little distracting, but I had to check in with you a couple of times to work out what was going on when Adler would talk too fast, so it did what it was meant to.”

Castiel nodded. “Alright. As you prefer to rely mostly on lip reading, then, would it be better for you if I didn’t sign along unless you give me a signal that you need clarification?”

“I dunno, man. How do you usually do it?”

“However the student needs,” Castiel said immediately. “There’s no right or wrong, here. Some people prefer to have me interpret everything, so they can take their class fully in sign. Others prefer to lipread, like you, and I only summarize if they ask.”

“What about people who—” Dean moistened his lips nervously, “—aren’t very good at it? I mean, not everyone signs, right?” 

Castiel’s nod was calm and understanding. “Not everybody, no. Some people don’t use it at all. They never had the opportunity to learn, or they choose not to use it for a variety of reasons.” 

“What do you do for them, then?” Dean wasn’t about to admit all of his baggage to this unknown dude just yet, but...it’d be nice to know if there were options.

“If ASL fluency is an issue, there’s several routes I take. Typing is the easiest.” Castiel reached down into his briefcase and pulled out a slim black laptop, perching it on the small table attached to the arm of Dean’s chair, and opened it straight up. After only a few moments the screen loaded, and Castiel opened up a blank document.

“I just type whatever the professor says,” Castiel typed.

Dean blinked. “That simple, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel typed. “Why create an excessively complex solution when a simple one works, after all?”

“You can type really fast, dude.”

Castiel gave one of his tiny smiles. “Yes. That does help.”

Dean huffed out a low laugh, and Castiel packed his laptop back away. 

“You don’t have to answer me now, or make any kind of permanent decision,” Castiel said, looking straight at Dean in that slightly unnerving way again. “Just think about what worked today and what didn’t, before your next class. We can try out a few methods. And if there are any other issues like the seating today, remember that you aren’t a burden, to me or the class as a whole. I’m not just here to wave my hands around, I’m here to advocate for your needs, whatever they may be.”

“Glaring at assholes included?” Dean asked, tightening his fingers around his backpack strap. Sitting close like this, Dean was glad he had such a good excuse to stare at those pink, pillowy lips.

“Ah, you saw that,” Castiel said. His smile was an exaggerated, guilty grimace. 

“I did. Was he being a dick?”

“It’d be unprofessional of me to call him a dick, Dean. We merely had a disagreement over his thoughts about rearranging the seating plan.”

“But I notice you didn’t say he wasn’t…”

Standing up from his chair, Castiel winked. “No, I didn’t.”

Holy shit, Hale Library was massive.

That should have been obvious from the outside, when Dean had approached the pale stone building. It had actual damn turrets, like it thought of itself as a low-rent Hogwarts, but it did look pretty cool, Dean had to admit. Even if he had, in his haste, not quite registered how huge the place actually was.

In his determination to not flunk out of every single one of his courses this time, Dean had headed straight to the library after his first two classes—both of which had been very similar, with lots of students, very little learning, and no real issues with Castiel by his side—with the idea of checking out or getting on the waitlist for all of the optional reading items that his professors had mentioned so far.

Reading, Dean could depend on. He didn’t have any issues interpreting stuff that was written down; no relying on anyone else, there. 

Dean had asked at the desk and paid close attention to the librarian’s directions, but even so, he wasn’t sure he was quite where he needed to be. He was near a display of interesting-looking sci-fi novels, though, and he stopped to check out the selection after seeing a familiar edition of  _ Slapstick _ on one of the shelves. He knelt down, squishing his backpack between his knees as he slid his fingers along the spines, moving past book after book that he’d already read.

All of Dean’s life, books had been comforting, easy, and educational in a way that school never had been. He was hoping for that to change now, but even so, books were where he could teach himself, where he didn’t have to rely on awkward, stunted communication.

There was a Christopher Moore novel that Dean was sure he’d never read; a chunk of the shelf was dedicated to it. With that many copies, Dean thought, it must be on the syllabus for an English literature class or something. He wondered if he should grab one to read while there were still—

_ OOF! _

Dean let out a sharp huff of air as someone tripped over him, essentially nailing him in the kidney with the toe of a battered Converse high top. 

“The fuck?” he grumbled, rubbing at his back as he stood up and shook it off. Realizing he’d dropped his book, he reached down to grab the copy of  _ Lamb  _ he’d been holding before someone trampled on that, too. 

Dean was swinging his backpack back up onto his shoulder, book in hand, before he realized that there was someone talking to him. He only picked up on it because the person was a hand-talker and their left hand swung into the edge of Dean’s field of vision while he was settling his backpack strap.

Snapping his head immediately over toward the person who, he assumed, had tripped over him, Dean blinked. “It’s you,” he said. “Star Wars girl.”

“That’s what I was saying!” the petite redhead that had switched seats with Dean in Adler’s math class said. “Of all ~~ people I could have tripped ~~ it ~~ person I cleared space for earlier!”

Dean hoped he wasn’t squinting too hard, but he could feel his brow pulling as he tried desperately to concentrate on the woman’s lips. She was speaking so damn  _ fast. _

“I’m Charlie,” she said, reaching across and punching Dean lightly in the bicep. “Real sorry about ~~ kidney, I’m a klutz.”

“Dean. And it’s okay, I was on the floor.”

“On the floor finding gems,” Charlie said, reaching out to tap the cover of the novel in Dean’s hand. She said something else, but her face tilted as she looked down at the book and Dean missed it entirely.

“Sorry?”

“I said it’s great, I’ve ~~ three times.”

“Oh,” Dean replied, nodding hurriedly. “Right. Sorry.”

“If you like that kind of book and you like Star Wars too, then—” Charlie was off again at full speed and Dean could feel tension prickling in the back of his neck. 

Charlie spoke animatedly, but not in the way Dean needed, her head turning this way and that as she gestured at shelves and began to pull her own back from her shoulder. If she’d just—

“I can’t understand you,” Dean blurted, his knuckles white around  _ Lamb. _ “I can’t—you’re speaking too fast and I—I can’t—I can’t read your lips when you do that.”

Dean wasn’t wearing his badge like he did at work. He hadn’t wanted to stand out, hadn’t wanted to make things harder. Briefly, for the first time all day, he regretted it. His chest was painfully tight, like it was trying to pull back his arm as he raised his hand toward his ear.

Charlie’s head tilted and she squinted at Dean for a moment before her eyes flew wide as he awkwardly pointed to his ear. “Oh my God, you’re deaf! I am so, so sorry!”

Dean’s chest released, the tension traveling to his shoulders instead. Great. The “sorry” part. He should have just backed away when he had the chance. “It’s fine.”

“No, that was really inconsiderate of me,” she said, still speaking way too fast but at least looking directly at Dean. “So, you read lips?”

“Yeah,” said Dean shortly, not really wanting to get into it. “Most of the time.”

“I...I’m speaking too fast, aren’t I?” Charlie said, looking stricken and guilty. “I’m terrible at this, shit. I’m sorry, I—thought, I mean—you liked the book, and you mentioned my shirt, I just thought maybe we had some stuff in common.”

Dean blinked.  _ What the hell?  _ “We probably do have stuff in common,” he said, confused. “I’m deaf, that’s all. I still have a personality!”

Charlie looked like she wanted the carpet to swallow her. “I didn’t mean—holy shit, I really am bad at this. Can we just start again, dude? Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Biting his lip, Dean tried not to chuckle at how utterly forlorn she looked. “Look, breathe. It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

Dean thought that Charlie would leave at that point, awkward apology aside, but instead she reached out and raised a finger, the universal sign for “wait one sec,” before digging around in her bag. She pulled out her cell phone, and after a few quick swipes, she had a notepad app open.

“Is this easier?” she typed, handing her phone over to Dean with a grin.

“Yeah,” Dean typed back quickly. “You speak super fast. I can understand you, but I think I’m missing stuff.”

“Well, typing isn’t a problem for me in the slightest. I was just saying that it looked like we were into some of the same things, so I was asking if you were a freshman. I’ve never seen you around at any clubs or stuff.”

“Technically, yes,” Dean responded, tapping away. “I just started classes today, but I guess I’m a ‘mature student’ compared to most of these kids.”

Charlie smirked, and Dean was instantly glad he hadn’t offended her. She looked younger than him, sure, but hardly like she’d just finished high school.

“I’m here doing my second bachelors,” she responded. “So, I’ve been here forever. If you want a tour guide, or drinking buddy, or an introduction for any of the nerdy stuff around here, I’m your girl.”

Dean looked down at what Charlie had typed, unsure. Did she mean— 

Very quickly, Charlie snatched the phone back. “I don’t mean like THAT. I’m a girl’s girl, not YOUR girl. I just meant like a friend.”

Grinning, Dean took the phone back. “Right. Gay. Gotcha.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes slightly. “And that’s okay?”

“Of course it is. I’m bi, and I’m also not an asshole.”  _ Or at least not in that way _ , Dean allowed in his head.

At that, Charlie beamed. “Well,” she typed, “in that case you should come to the party at Sig Chi on Friday.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not the frat type.”

“Oh, me neither, but my friends Ed and Harry are pledging this year. It’s a family thing for them, so a whole bunch of us are going. I can introduce you to people and it’ll be low-pressure.”

While part of Dean wanted to say yes, he also immediately wanted to say no. Charlie seemed nice, and he didn’t want to spend his whole time at K State as a weird loner. But there were just so many things about the invitation which made his chest crunch in on itself oddly.

Dean was just fine socially, in smaller or more familiar places; he picked up ladies (and sometimes men) in his aunt Ellen’s bar all the time. But that wasn’t a party, full of so many total strangers.

But he did also want to go, in some ways. The idea of having a few drinks, enjoying the feel of the music, meeting some people that could be kinda cool… It was tempting.

“I dunno. I’m not sure if that’s my scene. How about we swap numbers and I’ll let you know?” Dean settled on.

Charlie beamed exactly like he’d said “yes.” He had a feeling she wouldn’t let it rest that easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we starting to see where Dean's stubborn defensive streak just _might_ cause some issues for him? ;) He has his reasons, of course. 
> 
> But at least he's making friends--more than one! I'm excited to develop those relationships.
> 
> Next week: Dean settles in, parties, and makes a mistake.
> 
> Hope you've all had a good week. I know I have a couple of readers in Texas, and I've been thinking of you and your weather. I hope things are warming up and getting better!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. As always, if you want updates when I post, please do [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile). You're also welcome to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/) or check out my [linktree](https://linktr.ee/MalMuses) for other social media.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!
> 
> A short author's note this week, as I got a vaccination a few days ago and somehow I am still really, really tired. Grateful, but tired. I hope you all had a good week. Even if you feel like it's been a rough week, try and tell me one good thing that happened in the comments, because I'd love to hear it, and everyone needs a little positivity sometimes.
> 
> Thanks so much for coming to check out chapter three! As mentioned last week, Dean makes a bit of a mistake here. But don't worry, it's nothing too terrible and it won't last long.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal <3

Charlie hadn’t let it rest. Friday night found Dean digging through the tiny closet in his orderly but dank one-bedroom apartment, discarding every shirt he owned. Eventually, he gave up and sat down on the edge of his bed, causing a mountain of plaid to cascade over the comforter behind him. Shoving it away roughly, he opened up his laptop. 

Bringing up Zoom, it only took a minute for his younger brother’s face to appear. Luckily for Dean, lip reading from Sam was as natural as breathing, especially considering he could predict what the kid would say ninety percent of the time.

“Hey, Dean. What’s up?”

“What do you wear to these things?”

Sam squinted through the screen at him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his shared apartment all the way across the other side of the country, at Stanford. He was wearing a neat, gray button-down and some black slacks. Clearly, Sam hadn’t had any issues deciding what to do or what to wear for his Friday night. 

“You said you were going to a party, right?” Sam asked. “You’ve been to parties before. A lot more than me, I’d bet.”

“I know,” Dean said, running his hands back through his hair. “I have no idea why I’m stressing out so much over this.”

“It’s gonna be fine, Dean. You said that Charlie girl was cool, and you had lunch with her a couple of times this week. Pretty sure if she’s nice, her friends probably aren’t total jerks.”

“That doesn’t tell me what to wear.”

“Jesus, Dean, who cares? A shirt that doesn’t have motor oil on it and preferably pants. Seriously, it’s college. No one gives a shit.”

“Well, you’re all dressed up. Where are you going?”

“Taking Jess to see a play,” Sam said. He looked proud, brushing off his shirt sleeves as he grinned across at Dean. 

After quizzing Sam on his date, Dean finally picked out a shirt, got his boots on, and managed to get out the door before Charlie blew up his phone any further. She was...energetic.

“Nice shirt,” Charlie said as he slipped into the passenger side of her banana-yellow Gremlin. He’d seen the car for the first time when they’d met up for lunch on campus, and by the end of their coffee and sandwich he’d felt comfortable enough to mock her mercilessly about it. 

She had yet to meet Baby, but like  _ Hell  _ was he taking his girl to a frat party, of all places.

“Thanks,” Dean said, looking down at the burgundy button-down that he’d finally decided on with Sam’s assistance. The past year or so, Sam had been bugging him on and off about  _ ‘meeting somebody’ _ as opposed to hooking up. Dean wasn’t sold, but he could still try and make a good impression on a few folks, no matter what he hoped the end result would be. “I’ll be honest, I asked my brother what to wear,” he tagged on with a shrug.

Dean could feel Charlie’s laughter through the arm she had pressed against him as he did up his seatbelt. Gremlins weren’t big on elbow room.

“Your brother some ~~ fashion icon?” Charlie asked, looking over at Dean with her hands on the wheel.

“God, no, far from it. The kid is into lawyer fashion. I was just that nervous, I guess.” 

“Don’t be. I ~~ it’s ~~ be fun,” Charlie insisted, before checking her mirrors one last time. “Ready to go?”

Charlie was getting easier to understand—or at least she was slowing down a little—but Dean still missed little chunks of what she said, sometimes, and ended up asking her to repeat herself. 

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fun,” Dean answered once she’d tried the sentence again. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. I know it’s a long way.”

Charlie pulled her phone from her lap and quickly typed out a longer response, shoving the screen at Dean with a grin.

“It’s not too bad. I live just outside Topeka, not over in Manhattan, so Lawrence isn’t that big a deal. Besides, I wasn’t gonna let you not wanting to drive the whole way there and back be an excuse not to go. You’re still crashing with me and Dorothy after, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Dean said, nodding as he returned her phone.

They didn’t talk much more during the journey, but Dean was used to that—Charlie needed her eyes on the road, so it wasn’t like she could face Dean all that much. She did put on some music, though, after a whole discussion about why Dean wanted it on even though he couldn’t hear it.

Dean liked that she asked. Charlie was curious, but in a really respectful way, and it didn’t make him bristle to have to explain to her how loud music could still feel good, even if he had no idea what the lyrics were.

The Sig Chi house was, as Dean expected, huge and a little bit tacky. It was completely overrun with people, and Dean immediately felt sorry for whoever else lived around here—it had to be loud, surely? 

As soon as they’d parked down the street and walked up to the old, white, column-fronted building, Charlie grabbed Dean by the elbow and marched them straight inside. He could only assume that she was yelling something, because people scattered in front of her like split bowling pins, most of them with their shoulders bobbing and their mouths open, laughing good-naturedly. Charlie seemed to know her way around. Without pause, she dragged Dean straight to the kitchen area of the house, where he met Harry, Ed, and a really large keg of beer.

Helping himself, Dean smiled uncertainly at the two guys—a few years younger than him and Charlie, by the looks of it, and clearly nerdy as fuck—and raised his cup in their direction.

“This is Dean,” he saw Charlie announce. “He’s deaf, so get some God damn manners and ~~ at him when you talk, and make sure you speak one at a time.”

For a second Dean’s shoulders tensed, but Ed immediately shrugged and pushed up his glasses before asking clearly, “Alright. What’s your major?”

“Mechanical Engineering.”

“First year?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” Harry chimed in, grimacing. “Let me guess—you’ve got ~~, Goldsmith, and fucking Adler.” 

Relief washing through him, Dean nodded. “So, it’s not just me that thinks Adler is a dick.”

“Oh, no,” said a tall, dark-haired woman that pushed into their little circle and slipped her arm around Charlie. “Dorothy,” she interjected, before diving right back into the conversation. “Adler managed to ~~ his reputation already?”

Suddenly everyone was looking at Dean, waiting for a story, and he tensed. “ _ A grown ass man had to stand up for me, just so he’d let me get a seat near the front” _ suddenly sounded pathetic. 

But that, in turn, sounded suspiciously like something his dad would have said, now that Dean phrased it like that.

_ Fuck you, _ Dean thought, pushing right past it. 

“Yeah. He had a seating plan—which, first of all, who has a seating plan in college, like they’re teaching middle school?—and he put me right at the back. My interpreter called him out on it, but it looked like he had to fight for it.”

“He sure did,” Charlie confirmed, looking at Dean even though she spoke to the group. “Right in front of my seat. That trench coat dude is a badass though; he ~~ right over Adler. I couldn’t even hear most of what he was saying, but I could tell he crushed him under those dorky boots like an ant.” 

Dean chuckled. “Trench coat dude’s name is Cas. He’ll be in my classes all year.”

“Oh, good,” Charlie said, before grinning wickedly. “I’m a card-carrying, gold-star dick dodger and I have been for my ~~ existence, but that dude ~~ enough big dick energy to excite even me. The eye candy is welcome.”

Dean choked on the sip of beer he’d taken.

“What?” Charlie challenged, grinning maniacally over the top of a wine glass she seemed to have mysteriously procured while Dean was concentrating on lip reading. “He not your type?”

“Oh, no,” Dean admitted easily. “He’s definitely my type. Cas is really hot. Super hot, even—Harrison Ford level. Honestly, it’s really not an issue to have to concentrate on him so much, both during  _ and _ after class.”

Dean expected Charlie to continue laughing, or agree, not for her eyes to widen over top of her wine like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Charlie?”

“Cas! Right? That’s your name, yeah?” Charlie reached out, grabbed Dean by his shoulder, and forcibly turned him around.

Right into Castiel.

And he wasn’t wearing the trench coat, either.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, smiling his tiny smile at Dean’s bright red face as if nothing had happened. In one hand he held a solo cup of watery beer, which he reached across to place on the counter so that he could sign, echoing his greeting. Dean’s eyes followed his bare forearm upward and his brain short-circuited. 

Castiel was wearing a tight, black t-shirt with a muted design on the front: a giant pair of faded lips with the teasing words  _ “Lust or Bust” _ printed around them. It hugged his muscles so closely across the shoulders that Dean could name them all— _ deltoid, trapezius, perky fucking pectorals,  _ Dean’s brain sang unhelpfully—and somehow the washed-out color of the fabric seemed to highlight just how tan he was. Below that, he wore jeans that were in some kind of fight to the death with his thighs, and they looked to be losing badly. 

Dragging his eyes swiftly back up to the pink lips and sex hair (like that helped), Dean focused desperately on his too-blue eyes instead while he blurted, “Your coat is gone.”

Castiel blinked slowly, before looking down, then back up. “Oh...yes. Casual clothes, not work clothes. My brother was insistent.”

Dean moistened his lips, willing his cheeks to burn less. Hopefully he could pass it off as alcohol, because neither his cheeks nor his dick appeared to be under his control, currently. Traitors. Scrambling not to sound like an idiot, Dean sucked in a breath and asked, “So, you hang around college parties often?”

Castiel  _ blushed _ . 

It was somehow both adorable and reassuring, all at once.

“No, not at all. My little brother is pledging here this year. He should be around here somewhere…” Castiel paused, looking around for a moment. “Ahh. There he is.” 

Through the kitchen window, Castiel indicated the brick patio outside, where a short brownish-blond guy—with no shirt or shoes, and something strung around his neck that was flashing—was downing the tail end of a liquor bottle. As if on cue, he threw his arms up in the air, tossed his head back, and then beat his chest like a caveman.

Looking back at Castiel, Dean raised an eyebrow silently.

“He’s adopted,” Castiel said, and Dean didn’t need to be able to hear in order to know that his tone was dry as fuck. 

Stifling a smile, Dean suddenly remembered his manners and sharply turned, introducing Castiel to the small group he’d been standing with.  _ Standing with, talking about how hot you are, _ Dean thought, desperately hoping that Castiel had been suddenly selectively deaf himself, at least for that embarrassing moment.

Not that Dean had any issues hitting on guys when he wanted to. But Cas was something else, professional and put together and serious and way, way out of Dean’s league. Plus, he had zero idea what Castiel’s sexual preferences were, nor did it seem particularly appropriate to ask out of the blue, since Castiel was assigned to work with him all year. 

It was Cas’  _ job.  _ There were rules, probably.

Castiel chatted politely with everyone for a few minutes before excusing himself to check up on his brother (which seemed like a good idea, given what Dean had seen through the kitchen window). He gave Dean another of those small smiles as he began to shuffle away through the crowd, and as he reached the kitchen door, he caught Dean’s eye one last time.

“See you later,” he signed across the distance, just for them.

Dean had to admit, Sig Chi threw a damn good party. If he was honest, he was still feeling the effects of the far-too-late night by the time Monday rolled around, which proved more than anything that he was just too old for this college shit. But he’d promised Bobby, and he’d promised Sam, and Jo would have his ass if he slacked on the  _ learning  _ part for the  _ fun _ part. 

So, he arrived ten minutes early for class and was already reviewing Castiel’s carefully typed transcript of the previous lecture by the time a polite forearm tap announced Castiel’s arrival.

“Good morning, Dean.” He looked a little tired and rumpled, his hair sticking up in three places, but given that Cas usually rocked a style Dean thought of as ‘entirely unconcerned accountant,’ he looked pretty normal.

“Heya, Cas. Did you have a good weekend?”

Castiel nodded as he set up his laptop before turning to face Dean again. “I did, thank you. After the party at Sigma Chi I was quite tired, but on Sunday I went to watch a movie with a few of my siblings.”

“A few? How many do you have?”

“There’s nine of us.”

“Holy shit,  _ nine? _ Did I get that right? Is your family really religious or something?” Dean couldn’t help but blurt out, honestly unsure if he’d misread Castiel’s lips. Cas really made an effort so that Dean could understand him easily, but still... 

Castiel grinned. “Nine. And yes, which is why we’re all named after angels. But several of my siblings were adopted, also.”

“So, which one of the nine was pledging on Friday? Did he go through with it?” Dean asked, leaning his arms forward onto his small desk.

“That was Gabriel, the second youngest. He did pledge, which was no surprise, given that he’s a huge party animal.” Castiel tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

“Not so much your scene, huh?” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged. “Parties are more fun when you have someone to go with, rather than just being the older brother-slash-chaperone. But Gabe wanted me there, so I went.”

Dean wondered, briefly, why on Earth Gabriel wanted to drag his brother along for a college party in the first place, but figured that it probably wasn’t his place to ask.

“Did you have a good time? I saw you talking to a pretty brunette before I left,” Castiel said with a small smile. “I was going to say goodbye, but I thought I’d better not interrupt.”

Ahh. Dean shifted self-consciously in his seat. There  _ had _ been a pretty brunette at the party… Lisa, she’d said her name was. Charlie had turned out to be a great wingman, and he’d ended up trying to talk to Lisa for a few minutes. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone so well. She seemed like a sweet girl, but Dean had trouble working out what she was saying, and she struggled to remember to look at him when she spoke. 

He’d gotten frustrated and he’d definitely drunk too much after. Hence the hangover he could still kinda feel on Monday.

Interactions like that were common for Dean, and it sucked. He was well aware that he could have taken the time to try and work out the communication issues, explain what he needed, see if she was still interested. But Dean wouldn’t. 

Because having someone have to change how they acted just to include him made him feel like a  _ problem,  _ like work, like a  _ burden. _

He didn’t say anything like that to Castiel, of course. He just shrugged awkwardly and said, “You should’ve come over, man. That was never gonna work out, anyway.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean was instantly reminded of the expression Jo would have had if he’d said something like that to her. “Why not?”

Dean turned deliberately away from Castiel, moving his eyes purposefully to the giant whiteboard ahead as he said, “Communication issues.”

He didn’t need Castiel telling him he was wrong. Or even worse, he didn’t need him agreeing.

Dean’s class passed swiftly, with a few humorous interludes as Castiel tried desperately to spell engineering terms without pausing to look them up. 

Cas was great. He read ahead in Dean’s syllabus, tried to make sure he could summarize where professors waffled, tried to learn the terms so he could make sure Dean learned them. He did a lot more than Dean suspected he was even supposed to—hell, at this rate, the dude was gonna end up deserving an engineering degree of his own. 

But that was the thing about Castiel, Dean was learning. He clearly did this job for passion, not for a paycheck. Dean suspected that he’d chosen the career for personal reasons, but he felt like it wasn’t his place to ask. That was Cas’ own business.

“Do you have to run anywhere before your lab this afternoon?” Castiel asked when they were done, remembering Dean’s schedule better than Dean himself did, as always.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t have time to head home, so I was just going to hang out around campus somewhere.”

Castiel hoisted his laptop bag up to his shoulder. Dean’s eyes immediately zoned in on his fingers playing nervously with the strap, making him miss the first part of Castiel’s question.

“—with me?” 

“Sorry, again?” Dean said, quickly signing  _ repeat _ . He didn’t use many signs with Castiel, even though Cas signed a lot. Really, he was embarrassed to; he knew his own attempts were clumsy, with a bunch of pidgin signs thrown in. There were bunches of really common signs he’d just never learned, and it made him self-conscious to try, especially when Castiel was so comfortable and fluent.

“Would you like to get lunch with me? I usually bring myself some sandwiches from home so I can do paperwork while I eat, but I forgot today.”

“Sure,” Dean said, happier than he’d care to admit at the prospect of hanging out with Cas a little outside of class. “That’d be great.”

There was a Chick-fil-A restaurant in the Student Union, and Dean was internally delighted to see that Castiel didn’t even bring it up as an option. Instead, they walked the short way from Engineering Hall to Radina’s, a local coffee shop that, according to Castiel, made killer sandwiches.

“The turkey bacon with rosemary ~~ on Konza wheat is amazing,” he said, sliding onto a stool next to a tiny bistro table and pointing to the menu.

“Turkey bacon is an abomination,” Dean corrected him, before ordering himself some real bacon with swiss on sourdough.

Castiel smiled—the type of smile that Dean was beginning to notice more often, where his eyes did a lot more work than his mouth—pulling the lid off his paper coffee cup and blowing carefully across the top of the piping-hot Vienna roast.

They munched contentedly across from each other, and it wasn’t until Castiel pushed his waxy paper wrapper aside—with the crusts still on it, Dean noticed—that he tilted his head to grab Dean’s attention.

“I’d like to ask you something,” he said. “Well, offer you something, really.”

Wiping his mouth with a corner of his biodegradable napkin, Dean made what he hoped was an interested sound before balling up the paper and tossing it down onto the table. “Alright. Hit me.”

“You say you never learned sign.”

Dean bristled immediately. “That’s a statement, not a question.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. It was a full-body affair, and Dean tried not to smile at the motion. “Fine,” Castiel said. “It’s very clearly something you’re not comfortable talking about, so I won’t push. But I have seen you use some sign, though you seem uncomfortable with it, unpracticed.” 

“And?” Dean said, crossing his arms firmly.

“I was going to offer to teach you more and help you practice what you do know, so that you have an additional tool in your box. It would probably be very helpful for you, so that you could communicate more easily with other deaf people.”

“Don’t know any other deaf people,” Dean said stubbornly. Alright, that wasn’t quite true, he knew Jo. But that wasn’t the point here. The point here was...well, it was…Dean clenched his jaw. 

“You could meet some,” Castiel said, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s a thriving d/Deaf community in Manhattan and beyond, there are events all the time and I was hoping—”

“I don’t need your help making friends,” Dean interrupted, pushing his stool back sharply. “That’s not your place.”

Castiel blinked in surprise, leaning back quickly as if Dean’s words had smacked into him physically. “I just—I thought maybe—” Castiel was stumbling uncharacteristically over his words, making Dean miss whatever he said next, but it didn’t matter, anyway.

Grabbing his satchel off the floor, Dean snatched his coffee off the tabletop, causing some to splash out of the opening. “I have to get to my lab. I’ll see you in class.” 

As Dean stormed past the cafe window he could see Castiel still sitting at their table, slowly mopping up Dean’s spilled coffee with a bunch of napkins and a strange, sad expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Dean. I don't think that was how Cas meant that _at all._
> 
> Luckily, as we'll see very soon, Dean isn't the only stubborn boy around here ;)
> 
>   
> Take care, all of you.
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. As always, if you want updates when I post, please do [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile). You're also welcome to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/) or check out my [linktree](https://linktr.ee/MalMuses)for other social media.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, folks!
> 
> I hope you all had a good week, or the best week you could have. I loved reading all of your "good things" in response to my last chapter! It was really uplifting and I'm so happy for you all. 
> 
> This week has been very busy for me, and I've been a lot less active on social media (partly) because of that. I'm a little overwhelmed in life and I'm having to decide what to keep and what I need to let go of, and as a very Type-A "I can do it all!" sort of person, I find that really hard to do. A flaw of mine, for sure! I hope you've all been doing much better at taking care of yourselves than I have. Maybe this week in the comments, you can all let me know one thing you did this week that you consider to be self-care. And if you didn't do anything...promise me something you will do this upcoming week! Even just a little thing. It's important, folks!
> 
> On to the chapter!
> 
> No warnings for this one, I know you're all eager to see Dean clean up his mess! So...enjoy. 
> 
> \- Mal <3

Of all the smells in the world, thick, warm car oil was the one that was most comforting to Dean. It reminded him of simple, honest work and warm days, of Bobby and Jo, and of his Dad teaching him how to maintain Baby when he was just a kid. It smelled of belonging.

He’d arrived early for his pre-class shift at Singer’s, hoping that the work and the smells of the garage would distract him from his foul mood. Unfortunately, it hadn’t done as good of a job at that as he’d hoped.

Dean scrubbed at his hands with a wrinkled rag, getting off the worst of the black grease. Tucking the filthy cloth into the back pocket of his jeans, he carefully picked up the drip pan he’d used and carried it over to the oil disposal barrel. 

“That was quick,” Jo said, hanging a couple of wrenches back up on the wall next to him. 

Dean nodded, leaning over the small sink they had out on the floor and flicking on the tap. The cool water was nice; it was warm out, and the air conditioning at the auto shop was mostly useless, given how much of the frontage was open to the yard. Refreshingly cold water wouldn’t do much for the grease, though, so Dean cranked up the temperature.

Jo snapped her fingers rudely in front of Dean’s face, grabbing his attention again. “What’s up with you today?”

“I know you didn’t just shove your dirty hand in my face, Joanna Beth,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been blowing around here like the ass end of a hurricane all morning.”

Dean scowled down into the deep steel sink, letting the water rush over his hands for a moment more before reaching to grab the bottle of soap and looking back at Jo. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m patient.”

Sighing, Dean squirted some of the thick soap out of the bright orange bottle that lived on the corner of the creaky sink, looking down at it in his palms for a second before turning back to Jo. “Got in an argument with someone, that’s all.”

“Really?” said Jo, something smirky and annoying passing over her features.

“Not sure why it’s your business,” Dean grumbled.

“Because you love me, and because I have to put up with you PMSing about it. So, spill.”

Dean scrubbed at his hands, taking his time working at the grease that was ingrained into the lines of his knuckles. Jo was almost as stubborn as he was, and she waited, arms folded, until the water in the sink started running clear.

“Cas, okay?” Dean admitted grumpily as he shook the last of the pumice-filled soap from his hands and turned to face Jo. “My interpreter at school, Cas.”

Jo grabbed the rough hand towel from above the sink and threw it into Dean’s chest with a pointed eye roll. “Yes, I am aware of who Cas is. You’ve talked about him non-stop since you started classes.”

Dean  _ felt _ himself flush, like warm steam curling up across his neck and behind his ears. “No, I haven’t. Don’t exaggerate,” he mumbled, beginning to dry his hands.

Jo just stared.

“Okay, whatever, Jo—my point was just that it was him I got into an argument with.”

“Alright, what was it about?”

Dean twisted the towel between his hands aggressively, before throwing it to the side and looking back at Jo, defeated. Fine. She always got her way in the end. 

He explained what had gone down over sandwiches and coffee back at Radina’s the day before, telling her all about Castiel’s presumption and assholery. His hope for friendly support went up in flames the moment Jo raised both of her eyebrows before responding.

“So, there was no argument,” she said.

Dean frowned. “Yes, he—”

“You just yelled at him and stormed off.”

Dean set his jaw and breathed carefully out through his nose. Getting mad at Jo wasn’t going to help anything, he reminded himself. Carefully, he cleared his throat and began, “He was being pushy, and presumptive, and—”

“No, he damn well wasn’t, Dean. For crying out loud. You—” Grabbing the towel off the side, Jo used it to point stubbornly at Dean before she threw it into the laundry basket, “—owe him an apology.”

Dean spluttered, but even as he tried to protest, he could hear little warning bells in the back of his head. His gut began to tighten guiltily. What if—

“Did it not occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Cas was trying to help you because he has skills that could actually make your life easier _? _ That he was trying to be a good friend? That—incredible as it sounds—maybe he didn’t just want you to be able to go to deaf community events to make new friends, but that maybe he wanted to hang out with you himself?” 

Arguing with Jo was fruitless at the best of times, but even more so when she insisted on being  _ right. _

Ugh.

Dean let out a defeated huff and shook his head. “I’m gonna take a break.”

“Good. Text Cas and fix your mess, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t even bother to answer. He stalked off across the bustling bay, dodging Cole and ignoring whatever it was that the man’s horrible mouth tried to toss at him as he passed. Over in the admin corner of the garage, he stomped through the small office to the break room beyond. The room smelled of cheap lunch meat and old beans, which did little to help Dean’s mood. He felt the door bounce off the wall beside him as he tore through it, and he was met with Bobby’s very displeased frown from his seat at the coffee table.

“What’d my shop door do to you, boy?”

“Nothing, Bobby.” Dean flopped down onto the couch with a sigh, before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Tiredly, he reached up and ran his still-damp hands through his hair, linking his fingers across his crown for a moment. 

When he looked back up, Bobby was waiting, his half-eaten bologna sandwich still in hand. Ellen had made him lunch every day for the past twenty years since his first wife, Karen, had died. It warmed Dean’s heart to see it, normally, but right then it barely made a dent in his sour insides.

“Nothin’ my left ass cheek,” Bobby declared. “What’d you do?”

“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned. “Give me a break. Jo already let me have it.”

“And was she right?”

Dean regarded Bobby flatly across the banged-up coffee table.

“Alright, kid,” Bobby said. He put his sandwich down and leaned back on the couch. “Tell me what happened.”

“Since when was this a therapist's office instead of an auto shop?”

“Since you brought your emotional bullshit to work and made it one. Now talk.”

So, for the second time, Dean went back through his lunch with Castiel on campus the day before. By the time Dean finished recounting who’d said what and how he’d left, Bobby’s bushy eyebrows had taken on a life of their own. Dean felt vaguely threatened by them.

“You idjit!” Bobby exclaimed, shaking his head like Dean was getting on his last nerve, despite the conversation having just begun. 

“Look, Bobby, I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it. Stop being so defensive and thinkin’ the worst of everyone. You are better than John made you, so start actin’ like it.”

Dean’s chest throbbed uncomfortably. He felt shitty enough without Bobby reminding him he was reverting back to his Winchester ‘fight the world’ behavior. If he could only thank Bobby for one thing, it’d be helping him realize how fucked his childhood had been. 

“Sorry, Bobby.”

Immediately, the old mechanic’s posture softened. “Don’t apologize to me, Dean. Y’ain’t done nothin’ to me. Just say sorry to him. And if he wants to listen, explain. If he’s gonna have to put up with your moody ass all year, you need to step up.” 

Nodding, Dean dropped his eyes slowly to the table, ending the conversation. He could feel the bulge of his cell phone in his pocket against his thigh—he could text Castiel. They’d exchanged numbers after their first couple of classes together, in case one of them was going to be late or unable to make it for some reason.

Bobby’s hand clapped Dean on the shoulder unexpectedly, and Dean jerked upward to see that he’d risen and was heading back out to the garage.

“Just speak to him, Dean. It ain’t that hard. Humans, they talk.” With that, Bobby ambled off through the door, resettling his worn trucker’s hat atop his head.

Dean thought about it. He really did.

But words, apologizing words or words that revealed the parts of him he wasn’t so proud of…they’d always been hard. Yet another thing he had to thank his dad for, probably.

John Winchester had been moody even before his wife’s death, by most accounts, though Dean had been too young to remember that. What Dean mostly recalled was his father’s angry outbursts in the years after, and the increasing drinking that had led to him wrapping his car around a light pole a few years ago. Dean mourned him, sure—John was his dad, after all. But did he miss him? That was another question entirely.

Dean had done everything he could to make sure Sam was shielded from the worst of John’s moods, but the older he’d grown, the more he realized how much of that anger he’d internalized. How much of John’s furious ‘fight or die trying’ mentality he’d taken on without even realizing.

It wasn’t healthy. But Dean was also  _ not _ John, something that Bobby reminded him of on the occasions when he needed it.

After a long few minutes, Dean pushed up off the couch and headed back out to the bay. He’d speak to Castiel later, he told himself. For now, he’d quickly get the wheel alignment done on the Chrysler that’d just been brought in, before he had to leave for class.

As he made his way out into the bay to collect the car, he could feel Bobby and Jo’s eyes boring into his back with every step.

The sun was a little  _ too _ warm by the time Dean had finished up with the Chrysler and gulped down his homemade lunch. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead as he dashed across campus to get to his afternoon class, prickling itchily along his hairline. He’d spent the whole morning in a foul mood—through no fault but his own, it’d turned out, once he saw sense—and had deliberately dodged Jo and Bobby on the way out.

The drive, luckily, had given him some time to think about what he wanted to say to Castiel before class started, and he had his words in some kind of order in his head. He just had to get there early enough to say them.

He didn’t want to  _ excuse _ his behavior. But Dean knew that another legacy of his father’s was how hard he found it to say important things—like “I’m sorry”—sometimes, so he was determined to at least explain his reaction to Castiel.

The quadrangle out in front of Engineering Hall was packed with people enjoying the sun, having just emptied out of their morning classes or arrived for their afternoon ones, and Dean could feel the energy of the people jostling around him and enjoying their days.

Dean didn’t have time to stop and enjoy the cloudless sky and chat on the quad, though. He hustled through the crowds, head down, and bounded up the steps into the building where most of his classes were held.

Two flights of stairs and four choked hallways later, Dean reached Adler’s door. His spine was a tiny creek of early fall warmth and apprehension. Dean hauled in some deep breaths, focusing for just a moment on ensuring he didn’t look like there was an emergency happening.

He was fifteen minutes early, luckily, so he had time to calm himself and anxiously run through what he wanted to say just one more time in his head. As soon as Castiel arrived, he’d speak his piece.

Dean sat alone for fifteen minutes.

Right as Professor Adler plugged in his laptop to start the class, Castiel strode confidently through the door and beelined straight to his seat beside Dean. With nothing but a brisk nod, he set up his laptop and focused his attention on Adler, who’d started putting up some slides ready to begin.

Yikes.

Class passed torturously slowly.

Castiel was painfully professional and polite, only asking Dean short, precise questions when needed or answering Dean’s own just as proficiently. He typed along with everything Alder said, turning to Dean only when he needed to have Dean lipread something from him.

Dean barely took in anything, which he cursed himself for even as it was happening. Thank goodness for Castiel’s notes, because he was running too many circles in his head to make any sense at all of this lecture. He was gonna have a late night making up this class on his own.

His only saving grace was that Adler didn’t call on him. Which was pretty normal, really, given that Adler ignored his students as much as possible and certainly didn’t like any learner that might need something  _ extra _ from him. Dean thought he was lucky that the few times he’d asked for something so far—copies of slides or a transcript of a video there was no captioning for—he’d had Castiel at his side, ready to step in at a split-second’s notice.

Dean could tell that the bell (or buzzer, or whatever it may be) in the hallway had gone off, because the students around him started ejecting themselves from their seats with more speed and determination than Fox News would ever admit Gen Z were capable of.

Castiel, too, shut his laptop and began to rise from his chair, looking as closed-off and overtly professional as he had for the last hour and a half.

“Cas, wait,” Dean said, reaching out to catch Castiel’s forearm as he slipped his laptop into his bag. “Please.”

Turning his head, Castiel did exactly that—he waited. He gave a small smile but said nothing…just paused. His expression wasn’t unpleasant or angry, but it was certainly devoid of any of the warmth and friendly closeness they’d begun to develop over the past couple of weeks. Dean’s stomach twisted guiltily at the sight of it.

“I owe you an apology, and—and an explanation, if you’ll let me give it,” Dean said. He had to force himself to look at Castiel to catch his reply, fighting every urge to drop his eyes to his toes in shame, instead.

Castiel nodded and turned fully toward Dean again, though he didn’t return to his seat, instead just hovering. “You don’t have to explain anything to me that you don’t want to, Dean,” he said. “It’s not my place, as you said, to be present in your life in any capacity beyond interpreting for you.”

Ouch. Castiel looked calm and professional enough, but Dean remembered yelling those words at Castiel in the café the day before—it served him right, probably, to have them thrown right back at him. Obviously, he’d hurt Castiel’s feelings more than his stoic demeanor was letting on.

Just more guilt to add to the soup in Dean’s stomach, as if it wasn’t already salty and over-seasoned.

“Okay, I deserve that,” Dean said, allowing his eyes to drop for a minute. He sighed, before looking back up to speak. “My mom died when I was four.”

Immediately, Castiel sat back down, blinking. He looked confused—probably wondering what the hell that had to do with anything—but nonetheless, his brow creased sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that, Dean.”

“She was deaf, too,” Dean continued, wrapping the knuckles of his hand into his opposite fist and gripping tight, just getting the words out, like he’d been rehearsing the whole way here in his head. “There was a fire in the apartment building we lived in while me and my brother were away visiting our grandparents. There was a fault with the alarm; it sounded, managed to warn all the neighbors and get them out, but it didn’t flash like it was supposed to. My dad is hearing, but he was at work. She had no idea until it was too late.”

Castiel’s frown deepened for a moment, a sadness to it, but he let Dean continue.

“My dad was never the same after. He used to tell me, ‘ _ People out there? They’ll chew you up and spit you out. You gotta learn to exist in the hearing world, or you’re never going to get anywhere. Learn to deal with it.’” _

“Dean,” Castiel said, shaking his head sadly. “Oralism and mainstreaming like that are common, especially with a hearing parent or guardian. But it’s not—”

“I know, Cas. I know. But I was raised that way. I was reminded of it every single day. I was never allowed to—” Dean felt his throat constrict, and he was sure his voice wobbled. He was grateful he’d waited until the room had mostly cleared out, after all. “—to use sign language at home or take lessons. My dad insisted I go to a mainstream school and just…just ‘cope,’ he called it, even though there was a deaf school I could have gone to.”

Dean’s world was always silent, but somehow, Castiel seemed even quieter than his surroundings, watching Dean intently and just listening.

“I know none of this is an excuse to be a shitty person,” Dean said, pressing his fingers into his knuckles guiltily. “I don’t mean it to be, either. I’m just—just trying to explain that it wasn’t  _ you.  _ It was me, my defensiveness, my total lack of any fucking clue how to…how to do any of this.”

Castiel reached out and caught Dean’s hands as he gestured vaguely around. “It’s okay. Thank you for telling me.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not okay, and I know that. And I can’t promise I won’t ever push you away again, either. But…I’m working on it.”

Solemnly, Castiel nodded. “I understand.”

Dean cleared his throat forcibly and pushed a small smile onto his face as he stood up. “Anyway. I guess, what I really wanted to say, was…”

Slowly, haltingly, Dean finger spelled, “I’m sorry,” in front of himself, grimacing at his own clumsiness even with simple letters.

Castiel, though, lit up with a grin, clearing the strange air that had been between them for the whole class with laughter that gently shook his ribcage.

“You know, there’s a sign for that,” Castiel pointed out teasingly as he rose to stand with Dean.

“I know there is,” Dean retorted, relief flooding through him. Smiling hopefully, he gave Castiel a little shrug. “I was kinda hoping that you might still want to teach me what it is.”

Castiel smiled. “I think we can come to an arrangement, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, all better. Now, if they can just keep up that level of communication for the rest of the story... LOL. How likely do we think that is? ;)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always! Our little community here means so much to me, so thank you for being a part of it.
> 
> \- Mal <3 
> 
> P.S. As always, if you want updates when I post, please do [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile). You're also welcome to follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), or [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), or check out my [linktree](https://linktr.ee/MalMuses) for other social media.


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